Behold that old sink in a small enterprise, hardly
a centerpiece effort, but still taking up space in a
corner of the warehouse.
A wire soap dish hangs from the faucet and a ragged
gray towel has its place dangling from a rusty rack at
the sink’s side, and the faucet drips.
Do we talk about the faucet presenting itself as a
still-life scene, or the drip or just the sink—as its own story?
I say all—for a time.
You first, Sink, what gives you your life?
Why do you exist? Why haven’t you been
yanked out or replaced?
Never mind. This is all of a piece, more a statement
of vitality lost, history with brown edges, business
sapped of juice from lost care.
Besides, it’s that indomitable drip that really claims my attention.
It’s a messenger, each, one-by-one then it’s off to new life